


is this alright

by Nilmiel



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, First Time, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 20:20:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4759691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nilmiel/pseuds/Nilmiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Is this okay?</i> She asks, and he blinks because no one has <i>ever</i> asked him and something in his heart swells.</p>
<p>After the events of A Bitter Pill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	is this alright

He didn’t expect her to grab his wrist. That is why he pushed her, that is why she is against the wall beneath his grip. That is why she’s looking at him with eyes wide and a tremor in her lip and _oh, Maker_ , his chest knots in despair. He had felt the touch and the spark of magic and the ignition in his markings and he had turned on her— how could she expect him to act any differently? He had turned on her as if he were afraid— but this is Hawke, and he isn’t afraid of Hawke, he isn’t. He feels the regret show on his face as she looks at him in those few seconds. She looks at him as if she is afraid of him, as if she knows his fist will be in her chest and her heart will stop beating and it— _kills him_.

His breath sticks in his chest and he remembers the last heart he held in his hand, a miserable, pathetic thing that shuddered and died like a coward and he wants to tell Hawke that her heart is nothing like that. Her heart is a flame too bright for him to touch and he could never even reach for it because he is blinded by it. He backs away to go, just barely lifting his gauntleted hands from her arms and begins to turn, to hide from her flame in the shadows like the unworthy dog he is, but—

But she is _kissing_ him. And it’s like he’s been struck on the head because everything stops. Her lips are on his and he can taste her breath and the bitter sting of magic in her, but he doesn’t recoil. How could he possibly, when her mouth is soft and wet and pressed fiercely to his? She tastes like brilliant fire and ashes and his eyes fall closed despite himself.

And this isn’t how it feels, he thinks, as she turns him and presses him roughly to the wall. This isn’t how it feels when someone kisses you and holds you and doesn’t let you move. His mind should be numb; he should taste bile in his throat when her hands move to touch his markings on his shoulder. He waits for the whisper, the cruel lustful drawl, _my little wolf, you like that, don’t you?_ But it doesn’t come. It doesn’t come and what comes instead is her voice, smooth and rich like fine wine and she says _Fenris._

            His arms come up around her now and he leans his head back against the wall, letting her lips trail down his jaw and to the line of his neck and all he can think is _Hawke._ He must have said it out loud because she stops and looks him in the eye and lifts a hand to brush his hair from his face.

            _Is this okay?_ She asks, and he blinks because no one has _ever_ asked him and something in his heart swells and he tries to tell her _yes, yes, please don’t stop_ but the words don’t come in his mouth and the best he can offer her is a nod.

She takes his hand then, her fingers curling around flesh and rough metal alike and pulls him gently to the door of her estate and he follows. The fire in the foyer hits like a wave, but it is nothing compared to the fire from her hand where it touches his. She takes him up the stairs back to her room, past the sleeping dog and the soft cackle of burning logs.

As soon as they are across the threshold she turns to him, looks him in the eye and begins fiddling with the straps to his gauntlets. She asks again, _is this alright?_ And he nods again, breathless, and leans forward into her neck and into her hair and breathes deep the smell of her as her hands caress his wrists.

She smells like lyrium and smoke and something deeper.  He wants to kiss her cheek, so he does, tentatively, softly, feather-light. She tenses and he is afraid he has overstepped his bounds, that he has upset her. But instead of withdrawing she turns her head to press her cheek against his and whispers, hot in his ear. _Do that again._

So he does. Softly at first, slowly, lingering at each spot along her cheekbone, to the corner of her eye. His left gauntlet falls to the floor and her hands move to his right. Now he raises his hand and presses delicately against the side of her face his lips haven’t touched and daringly, he turns her mouth to his.

The part of him that expects punishment, a slap, or a foul word, or a spike of magic through his markings dies quickly because she kisses him back, all while her hands work to free his. Her tongue presses to his lips and he opens obediently, but not because he has to but because he _wants_ , and she presses against his teeth and the roof of his mouth and he drowns in the taste of her.

He doesn’t know how, but both of his hands are in her hair and his breastplate has fallen to the ground, leaving nothing but leather and cloth between them. Her boots are on the floor by the hearth and her bare toes touch his. She is pulling his hands to her waist, to slip underneath the cloth and something in him takes over. He steps back, not opening his eyes, not meeting her gaze, and he kneels before her because that is what you do when you want to please someone. That is what you do to make them sigh and forget, but she puts her hands on his shoulders and gently pushes him from her. _No,_ she says, and his cheeks flush and fear creeps up his spine because he has done something wrong, and now surely—

She pulls him to his feet before her and he cannot meet her gaze, but she kisses him on the forehead where the lyrium pools into three circles. _Let me,_ she says, kindly, softly, _wanting_. And she kneels before him.

And, _oh, Maker_ , her fingers are beneath his tunic, trailing light scratches down his stomach, and her lips press to the outside of his leathers and his traitorous hips buck at the flush of heat. A curse leaves his lips and he fists both hands in her dark hair and feels the rumble in her chest when she laughs.

She undoes the lacings of his leathers and slips each piece to the floor. The night air against his skin should make him cold, but she is so blessedly warm, the chill doesn’t touch him. Her touch is soft, never insisting, never demanding and he finds himself losing all semblance of control as she presses her lips over him. His head rolls back over his shoulder and he heaves a shuddering breath. And he knows the lyrium in his skin has ignited and blue light seeps under his eyelids, but there is no pain. There is only Hawke, and Hawke’s hands, and Hawke’s tongue, and Hawke's lips, and Hawke's mouth, and shuddering spasms of pleasure that rock him back and forth like the sea.

He reaches blindly for something to hold on to, some kind of purchase because how can he stay standing as she kneels before him as if he is worthy? She is the one who deserves to be praised, to have every bit of her touched with knowing hands, to have someone reach her in places that make her sigh and melt into gratifying bliss.

He doesn’t deserve this, he doesn’t deserve Hawke kneeling before him, worshipping _him_ , and he tells her so. The words spill from his lips and his nails dig into her shoulder and she looks up at him and asks, _does it please you?_ And he can’t lie to her, so he gasps _yes_ and _Hawke_ and she asks, _do you want me to stop?_

_No._

But he pulls her to her feet, slanting his mouth over hers and crushing her to his bare chest. He hasn’t ever wanted— has never _needed_ like this and she encourages him. _Don’t,_ he wants to say. If she gives, he will take and take and take because he knows now he can’t be filled. He will hunger and thirst and he will feed her to the hole in his chest if she lets him have what he has never had. That is why you put down the dog that bites, that tastes blood, that takes the power only its master should have.

His fingers tear at her shirt and she obliges him, slipping the garment away and shrugging off her breast band so she is wholly against him, fiery skin on his skin and he holds her tight, never letting his lips move from hers. She sighs under him and he growls and devours it, as ravenous as a wolf that has been starved far too long. But his legs are shaking and he cannot stand like this, he can’t— so she pulls him to the bed and he collapses in a shaking heap on top of her.

 _Hawke,_ he manages weakly, lips pressing her name like a prayer into her shoulder. He feels her breath on the tip of his ear and she shifts beneath him, pressing into him, against him, her hand teasing delicately below his navel and he says again, _Hawke_. Now she is beneath him and he rests between her thighs, her hands flush at the small of his back, his elbows braced on either side of her head.

She asks, again, breathless, _is this alright?_ And he pauses because he doesn’t know what to do. He is trembling and he wants, but she has given him what he has never had, and that is control. He is not caged, he is not held down, there is no hand over his throat and no magic scaring his wrists. It’s too much, all of the sudden, the things he _could_ do, the things she has given him _freedom_ to do. So he does not speak and he clings to her like she is the only point in the room that is steady in the midst of a storm, and in a way she is. She asks again, brushing her fingers through his hair and she gently turns his eyes to look at her. _Fenris_ , she says, and all he can do is nod and all he can say is _Hawke._

She looks at him, no pity, no sorrow, no apologies in her eyes. She looks at him and he is home, he is safe, and he is strong and his chest heaves as she looks at him and wants. She wants him, just as he is. Just as broken and raging and full of hatred and pain as he is, so he kisses her, and she lifts herself to him and guides him into her.

He bites down on her shoulder, shudders racking through him. A wordless cry leaves him just as she sighs into his hair, cradling his head against her with her hands. Her fingertips cover his ears, his neck, his jaw, her mouth leaves open-mouthed kisses on his shoulder, his collarbone, his chest and he finds himself supporting himself above her and she clings to him and begins to move against him.

This is never how it feels, he thinks. There is never this response in his own body, never a drive to give and give until he is dry. He didn’t know he could want until this moment, didn’t know he could desire above anything else the pleasure of another at his hands. He says her name, _Hawke_ , slowly, his teeth bared and ground together, and then again, _Hawke. Hawke._ She moves in time with him, caressing, pulling, biting, her dark hair splayed behind her head and _his name_  is on her lips. She sighs and it is like wine and he is a drunkard. She grabs onto his hips and calls his name in a way that makes his whole body cry out and he is falling. He collapses onto her, shaking, rolling in the waves of an all-encompassing ecstasy, and time stops, or it never existed to begin with because an eternity has gone by in only these few moments.

She’s holding him and breathing heavily, gently massaging his shoulders, and his limbs are empty and he is spent. She pushes him gently to the side and eases out from under him, shifting so that he lies sighing on his back and her head is nestled in the crook of his shoulder. And he is _content._ He marvels at it, closes his eyes in the rush of it, puzzling at the lack of anger or fear in his chest. His arms close around her beside him as she throws one of the covers over both of them, her legs intertwining with his.

Maybe, just _maybe_ he can have this. Maybe he is stronger than he thought. Maybe he could lay here, with Hawke, and know peace. Maybe he isn’t a dog that has bitten its master’s hand, maybe, just maybe—

And he sleeps.

\--

_Leto-_


End file.
